


A gift of chocolate

by ninemoons42



Category: Penelope (2006), Shame (2011)
Genre: Baking, Cake, Chocolate, Cupcakes, Established Relationship, Food Kink, Foreplay, Laughter, M/M, New York City, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Part of <a href="http://ninemoons42-five-sentences.tumblr.com/tagged/recovery">the Brandon and Johnny show</a>. Written for <a href="http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/"><b>cottoncandy_bingo</b></a>. Prompt: cake/cupcakes. My card is <a href="http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/208216.html">here</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A gift of chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> Part of [the Brandon and Johnny show](http://ninemoons42-five-sentences.tumblr.com/tagged/recovery). Written for [](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**cottoncandy_bingo**](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/). Prompt: cake/cupcakes. My card is [here](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/208216.html).

title: A gift of chocolate  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)**ninemoons42**  
word count: approx. 1200  
fandoms: McFassy, Shame, Penelope  
characters: Johnny Martin, Brandon Sullivan  
rating: PG-13  
notes: Written for [](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**cottoncandy_bingo**](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/). Prompt: cake/cupcakes. My card is [here](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/208216.html).

  
Even as Johnny toes off his scuffed salt-streaked shoes just inside the door to the penthouse he takes a deep, appreciative breath of the delicious scents in the air, in the welcome heavy warmth of his surroundings. Butter, sugar, rich dark chocolate; there’s a hint of coffee, too, fragrantly bitter and earthy. It all clings to him, settles into his skin, and it makes his mouth water as he hangs up his coat, heavy and still gleaming because it’s so new, even as it’s already taken a beating in the snow flurries falling over the New York City streets.

So new it’s glaringly obvious: soft dark tweed in a subtle striped pattern; he’s never worn a coat like this before, much less owned one. He runs appreciative fingers over the wine-red lining, over the beautiful stitching holding the seams and pockets down. An unexpected gift, and one that will always be too large for him – small wonder, that, considering its former owner. The same man who must be in this house if the scents and sounds coming from the kitchen are anything to go by. The same man who now limits himself to sighing and smiling when Johnny double-checks that the door is locked, no matter what side of it he happens to be on, as he does now.

It’s a habit of Johnny’s and he knows it’s a strange one, borne of paranoia and years of staying in places where he could never really sleep for fear of getting attacked in his own bed and worse. It is a habit that he knows Brandon tolerates with an understanding smile, and Johnny is as grateful for that gentle forbearance as he is for warmth and for the coat. He knows that Brandon could have just as easily coaxed him off that door-rattling habit – he lives in a secure place, after all, secure with more than just the locks on the door and the guards in the lobby – but Brandon has done nothing of the sort.

Johnny follows his nose to the kitchen, to the place where Brandon must be, because he’s home and it’s a day full of snow and storm, and that means he must be indulging a habit he’s dug up from the depths of his childhood: a good memory, one that Johnny has encouraged until it turned into a habit and an endless source of comfort for them both.

Brandon is a surprisingly good cook, after everything is said and done.

When he gets there, though, he has to blink, and then stare, at what he finds scattered on the counter atop the kitchen island: an empty carton of eggs, butter wrappers piled next to the remains of some really high-quality chocolate bars, a canister of brown sugar next to an empty pot of sour cream.

And in the middle of it all is Brandon in what looks like the clothes he went to sleep in, dark hair shooting out in all directions as he glares at the paddles of the heavy-duty kitchen mixer.

“You know,” Johnny says, stifling his laughter as best as he can, “people normally say that baking is a process that helps calm their minds.”

“Not when I’m sweating like a cornered nun, not when this is supposed to be something _important_ ,” Brandon grumbles – and then he looks up, and the look on his face is completely comical and completely unexpected.

Johnny gives up on his manners and starts roaring, right there in his socks and his bedraggled shirts and sweaters and the damp spot on his collar where he got caught walking through one door or another; he laughs hard enough that soon his knees can no longer support him and he slides very slowly toward the floor. By luck or some miracle he actually misses sitting down in some dark puddle of batter or scatter of white or brown powder; he’s completely unaware of his surroundings, just laughing and laughing until the tears fall from his eyes.

Someone is grumbling nearby and Johnny stops laughing, nearly cries out in shock, when Brandon picks him up off the floor and sits him down on the nearest counter, which happens to be the only clean bit of the kitchen island.

“Sorry, sorry,” Johnny gasps, and puts his hands over his mouth.

“No, don’t,” Brandon says, and he smiles, and pulls Johnny’s hands down by his sleeves. “It’s all right. I want you to laugh. You deserve to laugh.”

“Not at you.”

“Especially at me, actually,” Brandon says, and the smile becomes a grin that threatens to become laughter as well. The lines around his eyes are deep with mirth. “Who has two hands and doesn’t know how to bake a damn thing and bought ingredients for a cake anyway? This guy. I’m just hoping I haven’t killed your chocolate bars in the process. I – the recipe said eating chocolate, and the ones you bought were the only ones we still had, and – ”

“Oh my god,” Johnny says, grinning, “the only way to know is for us to start eating. I can reserve judgment until then. Cake, Brandon. Gimme.” He grabs Brandon’s shoulders in both hands and kneads.

Brandon shakes his head and breaks away to point at the wire racks below the spice cabinet. “You’re not going to wait for the frosting?”

“You tell me, did you even manage to make it?”

In response Brandon goes back to the mixer and brings over the large bowl.

Johnny peers in, and it all just looks good to him, mottled pale ivory and yellow, smooth and silky, no visible lumps.

So he dips his thumb in, picks up a generous dollop, and sticks it in his mouth. He groans because it tastes so good: it melts easily on his tongue, rich and creamy. “A little gritty. Too much sugar? I don’t care, it’s amazing, you made this?”

“I – I – ” Brandon says.

Johnny looks at him, and he feels it when his own smile shifts from appreciative to _wicked_ , and he picks up more frosting on his other thumb and smears it across Brandon’s mouth. He watches attentively as the look in Brandon’s eyes darkens, as Brandon carefully licks every trace of buttercream off his mouth. “Missed a spot,” Johnny says.

“Where?” Brandon says, grinning.

“Here,” and Johnny leans in to him, kisses him thoroughly, until they’re both breathless and clinging to each other, until Brandon wraps his arms around Johnny’s waist and Johnny wraps his legs around Brandon’s hips.

After a second kiss, after a third, Johnny pulls away. “Cake now?”

“Sex now, cake later?”

Johnny sticks his tongue out at him. “Sugar first. Besides, better we find out if you used my chocolate for a good cause sooner rather than later.”

Brandon chuckles and rolls his eyes, fondly, and goes to assemble the chocolate cake: it’s lopsided when he’s done with it, but it’s delicious, and it’s even better when they eat it with their bare hands, off each other’s skin, between kisses and laughs and groans.  



End file.
